


Murphy's Dethklok Grab-Bag

by HeyMurphy



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: A little angst, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Whining, body swapping, drinking of course, people being mean to Toki, some sexiness?, tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 12,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy/pseuds/HeyMurphy
Summary: Just a collection of mini fics I wrote up in response to tumblr prompts! Lots of general silliness, some sad stuff, Charles/Pickles goodness, some Toki/Skwisgaar if you squint - with more to come!
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen & Toki Wartooth, Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Toki Wartooth, Nathan Explosion/Abigail Remeltindtdrinc, Nathan Explosion/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. The Pickle Jar (gen)

**Author's Note:**

> "Murderface gets his arm stuck in a jar and all the other guys recommend the most outlandish solutions including shooting the jar open, smashing it with a large boulder, and even just straight up amputation. It isn't until Charles walks in to the gang of lovable idiots trying to pry it off of Murderface that he walks over and simply tells him to unclench his fist. Which of course causes to jar to slip right off."
> 
> (wanna send me a prompt? come find me on tumblr @ lampmeeting)

Murderface was starting to sweat. All he’d wanted was the last pickle, and now he feared the consequences would be dire. And it was his fretting hand. Dethklok would be ruined. He couldn’t play bass with a fucking glass jar.

Pickles came back into the kitchen with the pistol. “Found it! Glove compartment. You were right.”

Toki whimpered. “I dunno, Pickle, this seems toos extremes.”

“I still like my idea,” said Nathan. “There’s rocks like right outside. You can just take one and no one cares what you do with it. But if you shoot Murderface I’m pretty sure you’ll get in trouble.”

Pickles eyed the pistol, then the jar, then Murderface’s nervous expression, then the pistol again. “Eh, maybe so.”

“Hey, guys,” said Skwisgaar from the opposite end of the counter. “Looks what I finds.” He held up a mean-looking butcher’s knife and Murderface took a step backwards behind Toki.

“No way! You keep that crazy Swedish asshole away from me!”

Nathan started laughing. “Calm down, Murderface. Don’t you like this kinda shit? It’s like brutal fucking battlefield amputation.” He paused, pulled out his Dethphone, started to type. “Hm…good song title.”

Murderface brandished the jar like a club as Skwisgaar began to advance with the knife. “Fuck you guys! I’m not a soldier, I’m a musician! I need my hands!”

“Boys!” Everyone turned in unison to see Charles enter the kitchen in his dressing gown, looking irritated. He surveyed the situation and pinpointed the source of trouble right away. “William, your hand please.”

Murderface lifted the jar.

“All right, now let go of the pickle.”

Murderface frowned. “But I want it.”

“I understand that, but you need to let it go.”

Skeptical, Murderface loosened his grip on the pickle clenched in his fist, and in one swift motion Charles pulled the jar free, splashing juice all over the linoleum and his nice slippers.

“Oh, hey.” Murderface located the pickle lying on the floor by Nathan’s boot and stuffed it into his mouth with a crunch. Victory.


	2. The Last Beer (gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All the guys fighting over the last beer?"

“Best four outta seven!” Murderface said. “You’re cheating!”

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. “Pffft. And just how do you tinks ams doings dat, eh? Is rocks, paper, sexxers. Is just lucks!”

“Yeah, and you’re naturally luckier than me, so it’s unfair right from the get-go!”

Nathan growled at the both of them. “Wait just one fucking second. Why is this only between you guys? What if I want the beer?”

“You’ve had more than me already,” said Murderface.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yes, you–”

“Murderface, nuh-uh. I’ve been counting.”

“You haven’t counted shit!”

Pickles lurched up from his sofa crevice. “Hey, I want it. My buzz is goin’ away.”

“No!” Murderface yelled at him. “You’ve had more than all of us put together. You’re automatically disqualified from this.”

Pickles narrowed his eyes. “Murderface if you don’t gimme that fuckin’ beer right now I will knife you in your sleep, I swear to god.”

“Not a good plan,” said Nathan. “You know he’s been sleeping in chainmail like a fucking weirdo.”

“It’s not weird,” Murderface protested. “It’s for defense. You fuckers just wait until the next assassination attempt and then you’ll see. I’ll be alive and you’ll all be dead. And then all the beer will be for me.”

“Wheeeeee!” A brown and blue blur sped past them, and the beer vanished from the table.

Skwisgaar stood up and shook his fist. “Tokiiiiii!”

Toki skated to a stop in the doorway, turned around, and gave them all the finger. “If you wants it, you gotsta catch me!” He giggled and rolled out of the room.

Murderface, Skwisgaar, and Pickles took off after him.

Nathan huffed and leaned back. “No way, can’t trick me into exercising.”


	3. The Switcheroonie (lil' Skwistok)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone goes to bed after a night of getting sloppy drunk. They wake up different to how they fell asleep, now waking up in somebody elses body. Charles wakes up as Nathan, Nathan as Charles, Pickles as Murderface, Murderface as Pickles, Toki as Skwisgaar, and Skwisgaar as Toki. This could only go from bad to worse of course as they all try a rationalize the fact of the situation."

“Jesus fucking Christ, is that what I really look like?” said Charles’ voice, though it was clearly Nathan in there speaking. He cocked his head and examined his own body, currently occupied by Charles, who seemed equally disturbed. “I didn’t realize I had such a fat fucking ass.”

“Oh you’re having a bad time with this?” whined Murderface through Pickles’ accent. “Look at me over there. I’m a monster. Hey, slow down with that shit! Stop fucking up my liver!”

Pickles-in-Murderface was busy getting completely tore up, convinced it would make him switch back. So far, it wasn’t working.

Charles-in-Nathan looked timid and hunched, not accustomed to towering over the others like this. “Boys, I think we all just need to maybe go back to sleep and see if this resolves itself.” It was weird to hear Nathan’s voice coming out so level-headed.

“Heys,” said Skwisgaar-in-Toki, loud enough to address everyone, “I haves a weird idea. What ifs the onlys ways whats can change us backs is to have sex withs the guy whats has our body?”

Nathan-in-Charles pushed his glasses back up, peeked awkwardly at his own body, and said, “Pretty sure you’re just saying that ‘cause you wanna have sex with yourself, Skwisgaar.”

Toki-in-Skwisgaar went pink and put his hands in front of himself to ward off any advances. “I’m in here! Is Toki!”

Toki’s lips curled into an uncharacteristic smirk. “Ya, but ams just so good-lookings.”

“Maybe just a kiss,” piped up Pickles-in-Murderface drunkenly from the corner. “It’s like a fairy tale, Toki. You love those stupid things.”

Toki-in-Skwisgaar shifted in his chair. “Well…maybes just dat. Just one kiss. Makes it quick or I change my minds.”

Skwisgaar-in-Toki closed the space between them in a hurry, reaching out to cup his own jaw, to tuck his own golden hair behind a perfect ear. He leaned in and kissed his own pillowy lips the way countless women had kissed him.

Nathan-in-Charles eyed the two of them. “Well? Did it work?”

Skwisgaar’s eyes went wide and dreamy. “Oh, wowee.”

“That’s a no, then.”


	4. The Black Metal Reveal (lil' Chickles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "toki doing black metal songs in the middle of the night and pickles/charles finding out together"

By the time Pickles finally decided to throw on some underwear and seek out the source of the strange noise, Charles was already there at Toki’s door in his dressing gown. Pickles crossed his arms over his chest and approached cautiously, giving Charles a curious look. Neither of them spoke, just listened, as steel-wool shrieks and manic guitar chords sounded from deep within the bedroom.

“What the fuck’s he listening to?” Pickles dared to whisper at last. 

“I, ah… I think that’s him.” 

“No shit?” Pickles put his ear to the door. The vocals were _brutal_. Melancholy and wretched, the darkest fucking black metal he’d ever heard in his life. A pinprick chill broke out over his skin. “Jesus, what the hell, Toki…”

“We should probably put a stop to this for now,” Charles said softly. “I’ve been out here fifteen minutes and he hasn’t stopped. I’m concerned he could damage himself.”

Pickles nodded. As sick as it was to hear Toki like this, he didn’t want the poor kid shredding his throat open. He knocked briskly on the door and called out, “Hey Toki?”

The black metal kept going with no signs that Toki heard him. “Is the door locked?” Charles asked. 

“Let’s find out.” Pickles twisted the knob a little, expecting to feel the resistance of the lock, but it turned all the way and allowed them to enter. The two men peered around the darkened room until their eyes adjusted to a single lit candle by the bed. There was a mound of covers, and a guitar cord snaked out from underneath to connect to a small amp on the floor. Again, Pickles and Charles shared a questioning glance. 

“Toki,” Charles said, raising his voice.

This time the room went silent and Toki rasped out a quiet, “H-hello?” from within the blankets. He unbundled himself, squinting in the dark. He had his Flying V clutched in his lap with a Playskool tape recorder by his feet. He clicked a button to stop recording. “Charles? Pickle? Oh no, you heards me…”

Charles used his best ‘I’m not mad’ voice. “Yes, ah, we heard you. We just wanted to make sure you were all ri–”

“Toki, you sounded fuckin’ awesome!” Pickles couldn’t keep his enthusiasm in check anymore. “Why’d you never tell us you could sing like that?”

Toki fretted his guitar a little, looking ashamed. “Is just for me. Like when I’m too sads to sleeps…”

Pickles watched Toki’s mouth turn down in the dark and quiver a little. He glared sideways at Charles and shrugged his shoulder in Toki’s direction in an unspoken _Well aren’t you gonna do something about this?_

Charles lifted his brow to reply _Me? You know I’m terrible at this sort of thing.  
_

Pickles rolled his eyes to say _Fine you baby, I’ll do it_. He sat down on the side of the bed and put a hand on Toki’s knee to jiggle him to attention. “Hey, if you can’t sleep, why dontcha come make popcorn with me and Charlie and we’ll watch a movie.”

“We will?” said Charles, and Pickles fixed him with a hard stare. “I mean, ah, yes, Toki…if that would make you feel better.”

Toki’s face erupted into joy, and it was hard to remember that just a couple minutes ago he’d been screaming like a demon into a rainbow-colored cassette player. “Wowee, you means it? Cans we has M&Ms in the popcorns?”

Pickles grinned. “Fuck yeah we can.”


	5. The Prank (gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All of the band members decide to pull a prank on Toki where they hide to make Toki belive that everyone has dissapeared/ he's the last man on earth kind of scenerio. It's funny at first as Toki wanders around Mordhaus looking for them and taking advantage of grabbing the other guy's stuff without repercussion but ends with Toki in tears shaking at the thought of being completely alone, leaving the guys feeling super guilty. Hurt/comfort?"

Pickles smothered a giggle into the back of his hand. “Lookit that sad dildo go.”

He, Nathan, and Skwisgaar leaned over Murderface’s shoulders to watch the multiple video feeds on the Dethpad. Toki wandered from room to room, and Murderface made sure to click each nanny cam feed to follow him around Mordhaus as he went.

“Hello?” came Toki’s static-laced voice from far away. “Skwisgaar? Pickle? Nathans? Moidaface?”

Nathan grunted a short laugh. “I can’t believe we actually got the klokateers to fuck off for a whole hour. This is great. He probably thinks everyone’s fucking dead.”

Toki continued looking around, searching for anyone and calling names. “Charles? Knubblers? A-Abigail?” 

The boys kept snickering as Toki made his way down the hall that led to each of their rooms, peeking hesitantly into each one. When he reached Skwisgaar’s room he stepped inside and then moved off-camera for a moment. “What’s he doings?” Skwisgaar asked, poking at the screen. “Zooms in, makes it bigger.”

Murderface pulled the Dethpad away from him. “Hey, no touching! You’ll break it!”

“Guys, guys,” said Nathan. “Look.”

Toki moved back into view, tugging a sleeveless black shirt over his head and then adjusting a familiar belt buckle.

Skwisgaar reeled back, offended to his core. “Oh FUCKS no! Dat’s it, I’ms gonna kills him!”

“You’ll ruin the prank,” Nathan growled. “Chill the fuck out, this is funny.”

“To _yous_. Dats ams _my_ clothes he’s stretchings out.”

Toki spent a while in Skwisgaar’s room, trying out his guitars, lying in his bed. Skwisgaar at one point had to be physically restrained from leaving. Eventually Toki sat up and exited the bedroom, dragging his hand along the wall until he reached the game room.

“Guys?” he cried out. “Anyones? Ams _anyones_ here?”

The boys watched as he sat down on the couch, rubbed at his eyes, and sniffled loud enough for them to hear through the nanny cam.

Pickles groaned. “Ah, jeez.”

Toki started to sob. Just a little at first, softly, like he expected someone to catch him doing it, and then louder and with less restraint when it became obvious that he was completely alone.

Murderface lowered the Dethpad to address the other three members of the band. “Okay, this is just getting lame. I don’t wanna sit here and watch him fucking cry.”

“Ya,” said Skwisgaar, “lets go makes fun of hims insteads.”

Toki buried in his face in his hands, shaking and weeping like an abandoned child, and then he heard the four pairs of boots entering the room. He lifted his head, blinking through thick tears. “Ohh,” he moaned, lurching to his feet, “you’s backs. I thoughts–I-I thoughts everyones leaving Tokis behind for good.” He raced towards his brothers and smothered them all in a massive hug.

The four of them shared a guilty look as they hugged him back, all of them knowing they could never tell Toki it had been a prank. It didn’t feel very funny anymore.

Nathan gave Toki’s head a pat. “Uhh, there there.”

Toki sniffled again and nuzzled his face into Skwisgaar’s chest, arms still squeezing around the others. “Sorry I takes your clothes, Skwisgaar.”

“…Y’know what, keeps dem.”


	6. The Invisible Man (gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They decide to play the invisible/ignoring prank where they all play along in making Toki believe that he's invisible. The typical "I don't hear anything." When the person being pranked is talking kind of shtick"

Murderface eyed Pickles and leaned across the table to him. “Pickles, is there like a window open or something? Am I hearing a breeze?”

Pickles flipped sloppily through his newspaper, already drunk and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet. Or maybe he was still drunk from the night before. “Yeah there’s some kinda sound happenin’ but I can’t make it out.”

“It’s me!” Toki insisted. This had been going on for at least five minutes and he was starting to look worried. “Toki’s sayings somethings! Can’ts you hears me?”

“Ya,” said Skwisgaar to Murderface, “I hears a noise whats ams like a flys buzzings.”

“Skwisgaar!” Toki cried. “I’m rights here! It’s me!”

“Hey, Skwisgaar,” said Nathan, laughing a little under his breath but trying to keep it in check so as to not give them away. “Skwisgaar, I hear it too. Where’s Toki by the way? His chair’s empty.”

“I’ms here, Nathans!” Toki said desperately, sort of half standing out of his chair now. “Cans you really all nots hears me or sees me?”

Charles sat at the head of the meeting room table, pushing up his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose, waiting for them to get all of this out of their system before he attempted to give them any important information.

Toki waved his arms at his bandmates. “Pickle! Nathans!” He started to get choked up, frustrated and ignored as he was. “Don’ts yous hears me? I’ms heeeere…”

Murderface was grinning. “There’s that fucking breeze again, how weird.”

Toki finally sat back down, head hung, shoulders hunched and shaking.

“Toki,” said Charles suddenly, “I can hear you. _They_ can hear you. They’re just being dicks.”

Toki’s blue eyes lit up and he smudged away a tear. “Oh! Thanks goodness, haha…”

Pickles rolled up his newspaper and bapped Charles on the head. “Spoilsport.”


	7. The Deadline (Chickles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pickles craving attention from Charles who is to busy filling out paperwork to pay much to his complaining whiny boyfriend. Snuggles are encourged and apprciated!"

“Hey, Charlie.”

Charles looked up from the papers on his desk to see Pickles’ head halfway in the door. As nice as it was to see him, he couldn’t have arrived at a more inconvenient time. “Yes, Pickles? Can I help you?”

“Um. Yeah.” Pickles slipped into the office and closed the door behind him, but didn’t make any sort of advance towards the desk. He had a mostly-finished bottle of whiskey in his hand and was clearly intoxicated. Great. “I was just thinkin’…y’know… um. You’ve been workin’ a lot.”

“Yes, I have.”

“And y’know, it’s just…we haven’t really, like, hung out in a while, and I was just wonderin’…y’know…”

“Please get to the point, Pickles, I’m extremely busy.” He didn’t mean to come off short but he had a deadline. He looked at his watch.

Pickles flinched, swallowed down a mouthful of booze, and looked at his shoes. “Right, um. I was just hopin’ we could, I dunno…do somethin’ together.”

Charles tapped his pen on the ledger in front of him. “I won’t have time today, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of crunching some numbers for an important conference call in, ah–” He checked his watch again. “–thirteen minutes.”

“Oh.” Pickles still didn’t move from the door. “Well, um. D’you think I could just…I dunno, stay in here for a little bit? Keep you company?”

“I, ah. I suppose so. Just, please, don’t distract me. I really need to get this done.”

Pickles brightened a little and went to sit down on the chair across from the desk. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

Charles watched him recline over the leather, his head on the armrest, legs dangling over the side of the chair. The whiskey didn’t last long, and after a long pull Pickles dropped it to the carpet with a dull _thud_. Charles looked up from the calculator and glared a little.

Subtlety wasn’t one of Pickles’ strong suits, and neither was tact. A couple minutes of bored silence was all he could manage before starting to kick the heels of his sneakers against the chair. Charles, to his credit, ignored this and continued working, but then Pickles began to hum along to his drumming.

“Pickles,” said Charles, a bit sharper than he intended.

“Oh. Sorry, chief.”

This next period of silence lasted only about thirty seconds before Pickles leapt up from the chair and sat himself on Charles’ side of the desk to peer down at the paperwork strewn across it.

“So whatcha workin’ on that’s more important than me, huh?”

Charles groaned and raked a hand through his hair. “Pickles, it’s not more–-this is band business, all right? Merchandise sales. It’s critical work. Now, please–” He put a hand on Pickles’ thigh and squeezed for emphasis. “– _please_ let me do my job.”

“…fine.” Pickles turned his head so Charles couldn’t see his face. He didn’t need to though. He knew Pickles well enough to understand his feelings were hurt. It couldn’t be helped, though. This conference call needed to go perfectly.

As Pickles sat there on the edge of the desk, moping, Charles took that opportunity to finish calculating the last of the revenue projections, and he clicked the pen closed with a flourish and checked his watch. Four minutes to spare until the call. Four minutes he could spend with Pickles. He put a hand on his thigh again, rubbing his thumb into the denim. “Pickles, I’m sorry. Hey. Please don’t pout.”

Pickles turned his head back, eyes pink and damp. He sniffled. “I’m not poutin’, you fuckin’ asshole.”

Charles smiled softly and patted his lap. “Come here. Come sit with me.”

Pickles wiped his eyes on the sweatband around his wrist and moved from the desk to plop himself unceremoniously into Charles’ lap. The drummer was always much heavier than he remembered. He was slight but deceptively muscular in his arms and legs, and his middle was soft and perfect for holding. Charles gripped one of his little love handles to keep him in place and sighed happily as Pickles nuzzled in against his neck.

“I miss you, you know,” Charles said into his hair. “Every day. Every hour. I know I work too much. I’ll, ah, try to find a good balance. I promise. I don’t want you to ever feel neglected like this again.”

“…thanks, Charlie.”

Charles rubbed his back and kissed the top of his head between his dreadlocks.

The phone rang and his heart sank. Oh hell, they were calling early. He still had two minutes by his watch.

Pickles started to shift in his lap. “Guess that’s my cue to fuck off.” But Charles held him fast.

“I’m not taking the call. I’ll make up some excuse.”

“Charlie, c’mon.” Pickles almost laughed at him. “That’s not you. Answer the damn phone, it’s okay.”

Still, Charles refused to let Pickles go. “I want you to stay right here. Will you promise to be quiet?”

Pickles seemed to realize the implications and a coy grin spread across his face. “Yeah, I promise.” He settled back into Charles’ embrace and kissed his throat.

Charles went a bit pink, hoping he knew what was getting into, and answered the call.


	8. The Old Photos (lil' Chickles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The boys find old pictures of themselves as teens. It's all fun and games pointing out who had the stupidest haircut, worst acne, or embarrassing clothing. All until they come across a picture of old, or should I say young, Rock and roll Charles with his long 80's hair, sleeveless shirt, and half empty Jager bottle in his hand. They all burst into his office demanding an explanation of how someone so cool could end so lame."

“Oh my fucking _god_.” Nathan buried his face in his hands and groaned. “How’d they even _get_ this picture? I need to call my fucking mom.”

Dethklok passed around the latest _People_ magazine, the cover of which boasted never-before-seen photos of the band members in their youth. The article started with a huge color photo of Nathan attending his senior prom in an ill-fitting dark purple suit and pink boutonnière to match the dress of his date. Neither of them looked particularly excited or at ease.

“You look like a fuckin’ magician in that stupid ass suit,” Pickles laughed, and then turned the page and screamed. “For _fuck’s_ sake!”

Murderface looked over his shoulder. “I wanna see!” He saw, and howled wildly. “Holy fucking shit!”

“Shut up! I was eighteen! It was LA! Snakes ‘n Barrels was just gettin’ off the ground and I needed coke money!” On the page, Pickles posed in high-waisted Daisy Duke shorts and a sleeveless flannel shirt tied in a knot just under his chest. His hair was feathered and his eyeliner was sharp. “It was just some modeling, it-it’s not a big deal!”

Skwisgaar and Murderface cackled, tears in their eyes.

“Wowee,” Toki giggled, “Pickle, I hopes you gets paid a lot.”

Pickles grumbled and flipped the page. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Oh, shit! Toki!” He held up the magazine. “What the hell, dude? This is metal as fuck.”

Toki hid himself and went pink all over. “Ohh, no, don’ts shows that, it’s embarrassings.”

“I definitely wants to sees dis,” said Skwisgaar, and when he got a look he put a hand over his mouth. “What in de fucks names of Odin? Is dat evens yous, Toki?”

“Yeah,” Toki sighed. The photo was of him sitting on a ratty sofa in some basement, giving the camera the finger. His hair was long and stringy and his face was painted white with black jagged lines coming from his eyes and mouth. Both of his forearms were covered in leather bands punched through with long metal nails, and his white undershirt was drenched in blood. 

Nathan had come over to peek. “Woah, wait. When the fuck was this?”

Toki rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s back ins Norways. I thinks I was fifteen. Me ands my friend Runke was ins a blacks metal band together after I lefts home. We only playeds one shows, though, and we gots in trouble ‘cause we poureds pigs blood on the audience.”

Nathan chuckled under his breath. “Brutal. Good job, Toki. What’s on the next page, Pickles?”

Pickles turned to the next photo and snorted before he could stop himself. “Jesus, Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar’s expression went sour and drained of color. “Ah, fucks.”

Skwisgaar must’ve been eleven or twelve in the photo, and he smiled with a mouthful of braces. He wore a tall white cone on his head covered in gold stars. and held a big gold star on a stick.

Murderface stuck out his tongue. “Why’re you dressed like a weird sad clown fairy?”

“Is Swedish traditions,” Skwisgaar said pointedly. “My mother always mades me dress as _stjärngosse_ for _Sankta Lucia_. I…don’ts wish to talk abouts it.”

The rest of the band eyed him curiously, not knowing what to say. Pickles flipped slowly to the next photo to reveal none other than Murderface staring back at them.

“AHH!” Murderface tried to grab the magazine but Pickles jumped away and kept it out of reach. The others followed in order to get a good look. “No, no! Don’t you fucking look at that!” Skwisgaar took the magazine from Pickles so he could hold it even higher while Murderface scowled and gnashed his teeth.

The photo showed Murderface, no older than sixteen or seventeen, standing in someone’s backyard in a flame-print bathing suit and a neon green muscle shirt tucked in. Beside him, on the ground, was an old mattress covered in either dirt or blood stains, or maybe both. He flexed at the camera and tried to look tough through the whisper-thin mustache and zits.

“I knew it!” Pickles whooped. “I knew you had a fuckin’ backyard wrestling phase!”

“What was your ring name?” Nathan asked. “Lemme guess–Junk Yard Hog? The Dick Break Kid? Mr. Imperfect? Oh oh! Bret Fart.”

Murderface seethed, his cheeks red. “You’re all a bunch of fucking assholes.”

“GUYS!” Skwisgaar screamed, bringing the magazine back down for them all to see. “Guys, guys, looks at de last photos! Looks at whose ams on dere!”

Everyone leaned in to see. The final photo was a young man about eighteen, maybe nineteen, with long brown hair teased to hell and back. He wore a black bandana around his forehead, ripped jeans with boots, and a black Slayer tee from their Show No Mercy tour in ‘84 with the sleeves torn off. He held a bottle of Jägermeister in one hand and was throwing up the horns with the other, though his face was stern and serious.

Skwisgaar was covering the name underneath the picture. “Guess who dats is. I wouldn’ts has known without readings it.”

They all studied the man, trying to seek out anything at all familiar about him. Suddenly Pickles made a sound like he was going to barf. “THAT’S OFFDENSEN!”

They all stared harder, and then they were immediately on the move.

Less than five minutes later Dethklok came battering down the door to Charles’ office, interrupting him on the phone. He apologized profusely and put the call on hold to give the boys his full attention. “What’s, ah. What’s going on? You’re all in my office. At the same time.”

Pickles slapped the magazine down on his desk. “What. The FUCK. Is that.”

Charles recognized the photo, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and mumbled, “…freshman in college.”

“How the hell is that you?” Nathan asked. “This guy’s fucking cool. This guy can fucking hang with us. Fucking SLAYER. You’ve actually listened to Slayer? Who the fuck ARE you? I don’t even know who I’m looking at right now.”

“It’s like you got swapped,” said Murderface. “Like some body snatcher came and got you. Where’s THIS Charles?”

“Ya!” said Skwisgaar. “We wants to sees _this_ Charles more.”

“I’m still that Charles,” Charles said, brow furrowed. “I just, you know, had to finally be responsible. I grew up. Trust me, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be your manager right now. I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. I, ah, wasn’t exactly on a good path.”

“Well, you could try and be more fun,” said Nathan. “You don’t have to be one extreme or the other.”

Charles sighed, exasperated and wanting to return to his phone call. He made the sign of the horns and the boys lit up. After some laughter and a little more teasing, they drifted slowly out of his office to find something else to do, except for Pickles who lingered back for a moment.

“Hey Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re not dead in a ditch.”

Charles gave a brief laugh and put the phone back to his ear. “Thank you, Pickles, me too.”


	9. The Nightmare (gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How about Toki getting comforted by Charles after having a nightmare of his parents hurting him."

Charles jolted awake by the very urgent sensation that something was wrong with the band. He’d had this feeling numerous times before and could never seem to explain it, it simply was, and it was always correct.

He got out of bed and found his dressing gown, tying it firmly around him as he slid his feet into his slippers. “This is Offdensen,” he said into the comm watch on his wrist. “Get me a headcount of the boys.”

“Yes, sir.” After a moment, the voice crackled back through the watch. “Everyone but Toki is accounted for. What are your orders, sir?”

“I may know where to find him. Stand by.”

“Understood. Standing by.”

Charles rushed out of his suite and entered the stairwell. He wound his way down four floors and exited into the hallway closest to the kitchen. Again, there was no way to explain himself. He simply _knew_.

He stepped softly onto the linoleum, not wanting to startle Toki, who sat in the dark with his back pressed up against the fridge, clutching a long steak knife in a white-knuckle grip.

“Toki is located,” he said softly into his comm. “Stand down.”

“Understood. Standing down.”

Toki heard the voice through the comm and stiffened his posture. “Don’ts come closers.”

“Toki,” Charles said, his voice still quiet and gentle, “it’s just me. I’m here to help.” He inched towards the fridge, towards that awful knife.

“Charles,” Toki sobbed. Even in the low light, the crumple of his face was clear, the shine of tears on his cheeks obvious. 

“That’s right.” Charles reached him, knelt, and placed a firm palm on the dull side of the blade, pushing it away. “Please give me the knife, Toki. It’s all right now.”

“Th-they’s gonna hurts me…”

“There’s no one here. Just me.” Charles paused and drew his other hand to Toki’s in the hopes of working the knife handle away from him. “Please. Let go.”

Toki exhaled a rough, shuddering breath and loosened his grip enough for Charles to take the knife and slide it across the floor under the far cabinets. The moment his hands were empty, Toki collapsed in on himself and wailed. “I-I’m sorry, dont’s hits me, please– _please!”_

“You’re safe,” said Charles evenly, still clutching Toki’s hands. “I’m here to protect you. You’re safe.” He coaxed the poor man into his embrace and let Toki bury his wet face against his shoulder. “There, there. Shh.”

For a long time, Toki sobbed and shook into Charles’ robe. Charles had a feeling his knees were going to regret this in the morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the hug before Toki was ready. 

Finally, Toki gave a great, trembling exhale and seemed to calm down. He sniffled, whimpered, but still didn’t let go of Charles. “I hads a bad dream,” he explained. “I was backs there. In that house. M-my fathers…”

Charles shushed him a little. “Your father’s gone.”

Toki sniffled again and his fingers curled tighter into Charles’ robe. “It’s nots fair. Why couldn’ts I has a good fathers like yous instead of a bad ones…”

The words hit Charles in the chest like a cinder block and knocked the breath out of him. He blinked hard to fight back the sudden push of tears and rubbed Toki’s back, feeling the knots of scar tissue through his thin pajama shirt. 

Neither of them would go back to sleep that night.


	10. The Locket (Chickles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your story on how Pickles either bought or made the locket with the picture of Charles in it. Or! what if Charles gifted him the locket and Pickles made a little edit to it to make it more personal by putting a picture of Charles inside it! I can totally see Pickles saying something super cheesy like "Now you can be with me." While showing off his new edited locket."

A week after the funeral, Pickles woke in an unfamiliar shower with the vague shape of Toki watching over him. His head swam and his stomach hurt and _god_ he still remembered Charles. Still remembered he was dead. Still remembered the feelings never spoken, the feelings that didn’t mean fucking shit now.

“Oh, Pickle,” Toki sighed, sweeping waterlogged dreads out of the drummer’s face, “don’ts cry. I misses him too. It’s okay.”

“S’not okay.” Pickles wiped his face, words slurring. “And’m not cryin’, s’just the shower.”

“If you says so.”

Pickles sobered up enough to stumble out of the tub eventually with Toki’s help. He trembled in his wet clothes, dripping all over the tile. The memories of Charles were like bricks in his guts, and his temples pounded with nausea. Toki took pity on him and brought him a robe, and Pickles stripped down to his skivvies and put it on, clutching it close. It was white, terrycloth. Not warm and worn and smelling faintly of cigar smoke like Charles’. His heart lurched, his eyes misted over, and this time he couldn’t blame the tears on the shower.

—

Two weeks after the funeral, he stared blankly at the golden locket on the table. It was empty inside, blank, but beside it was a photo from Charles’ last appearance in _Fortune_ magazine, one of the last photos ever taken of him before…

“Fuck,” Pickles spat, and took a long pull from his whiskey bottle. “I can’t do this.”

—

It had been a gift three weeks before the funeral. “You always complain that I’m too busy,” Charles had said. “That we don’t see each other enough. And with the album release coming up there’s just so much to do, and well, I just thought–”

“What am I, your fuckin’ war widow?” Pickles clutched the locket in his fist and shook it. “This is _bullshit_ , Charlie.”

Charles’ eyebrows pinched together, and later Pickles would realize too late that he’d hurt his feelings. “I, ah…I just thought you might want to put a photo inside of it. One that you like. For when we, ah, can’t see each other.”

Pickles had been furious. He’d felt placated, slighted. He slammed the office door when he left.

—

Three weeks after the funeral, he sat at the kitchen table with the scissors, cutting a small, careful circle.

“What’re you doing?” Nathan asked, sitting down with the pop tarts he’d just toasted.

Pickles stuck out his tongue as he pressed the photo into the left-hand side of his locket. “Just something I should’ve done earlier.”

Nathan grunted. “So, uh. You and Charles, huh.”

Pickles draped the chain over his head and let the locket fall against his sternum. It felt good there.  
  
“Yeah.”

“…sorry.”

“Thanks, dude.”

—

The locket didn’t leave his neck for eight and a half months.

And then…the night of Dethklok’s most expensive show ever. The band stared down Cornickelson’s contract when the doors opened with a burst of light, and Pickles saw him step back into their lives like Christ emerging from the tomb.

 _Charles_.

There was no time to think. Everything happened too fast. He played the rest of the show in a blur stronger than any drug-induced catatonia. Voices called, hands touched him, moved him, the locations changed. Then suddenly there was Charles in front of him in the back of the helicopter, cupping his face in his hands. His warm, real hands. And his mouth spoke Pickles’ name and whispered apologies. They kissed, and everything came back into focus.

“Oh,” said Charles eventually, thumbing the gold chain at Pickles’ neck and following it down to the round shape that lay beneath his shirt against his heart. “I…I thought you hated this.”

Pickles swallowed, shook his head, and opened the locket for him to see. “I had to keep you with me somehow.”

Charles groaned and tried to hide the embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “And you chose _that_ picture?”

Pickles laughed until he cried instead.

—

Ten months after the funeral, one month after Charles’ return, Pickles laid back against his headboard and turned the open locket in his fingers. There was a new photo inside, one of them together in Charles’ bed, arms around each other, smiling.

Pickles reached for his phone and dialed. He knew he’d get voicemail, but it was okay.

“Hey, I know you’re in a meeting. Just…wanted to say, um…love you, Charlie.”


	11. The Cabin (Chickles, mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> done for a tumbler ship meme - prompt was "You're warm" with Pickles and Charles. :3 this one gets a bit raunchy just fyi.

Charles woke in an empty bed, which usually didn’t bother him, except he’d fallen asleep with a certain insatiable redhead tucked in his arms last night, and he’d rather hoped to find him still there in the morning. He sat up and stretched, shivering as the blankets slipped away. It was a cold Colorado morning. He’d need to light the fireplace later.

He rose and found his flannel bottoms and thick robe. His slippers lay by the foot of the bed where he’d kicked them off in the middle of Pickles hastily undressing him the night before. Heat prickled in his ears. He needed to find that boy.

The cabin was spacious but cozy, and it didn’t take long for Charles to catch the scent of something savory in the air. Approaching the kitchen, he heard the tell-tale sizzle of meat and–was that singing? He quieted his footsteps and peeked in through the doorway to see Pickles standing at the stove, working to stir something in a shallow pan. His dreads were tied back in a loose bun, exposing his thin neck, and he wore a pair of white underpants and a thin t-shirt and nothing else. Charles drew his robe closer around himself just looking at him. It was really _very_ cold, but Pickles seemed fine, singing under his breath and dancing back and forth in front of the stove in a way that made Charles watch his thighs for longer than he probably should’ve.

“Good morning,” he said finally, pretending like he’d just walked in and hadn’t been staring needfully for the past minute.

“G’mornin’, sunshine,” Pickles cooed at him with a brief peek over his shoulder. “You were out like a light. Guess I really wore ya out.” And he snickered and returned to his cooking.

Charles couldn’t help himself anymore. Couldn’t _not_ touch him. He went right for Pickles and wrapped his arms snug around his soft middle. “You’re warm,” he sighed against his neck, kissing at freckles. The man burned like a furnace. Pickles trembled, dropped the spatula into the skillet, and leaned back into the touch.

“That’s my thick Wisconsin blood,” he said, taking one of Charles’ hands by the wrist, leading it lower. “Y’know what else is thick?”

Charles hummed a laugh as his fingers reached their intended target, feeling the half-hard swell of Pickles’ arousal. Yes, absolutely insatiable, this one. Quick to light like a struck match. “The breakfast will burn, darling.”

“Then I’ll make more, _darling_.”

“I’d hate to see your efforts wasted, though. And I _am_ rather hungry.”

Pickles moaned with a bit of disappointment. “Fiiiiine. You win.” He pretended to pout until Charles kissed him, deeply, which did nothing to help the poor thing settle down, though he was grinning from ear to ear. “Gahd, you fuckin’ _tease_. I hate when yer like this. Go sit yer fine ass down already.”

“All right, all right.” Charles tucked into the breakfast nook and peered out the windows at the deep forest that seemed to stretch on forever. The snow-capped mountains in the far distance were pretty as a painting in the morning sun. It had been such a good idea, bringing Pickles out here to his vacation home. He wondered briefly why he hadn’t done it much sooner. What had he been so afraid of?

A few moments later, Pickles brought over two stoneware plates piled high with scrambled eggs smothered in cheese, bacon, sausage, biscuits with honey. They ate and talked and laughed and mooned at each other across the table.

Charles felt his heart well up with contentment as he watched Pickles lick dibbled honey from his fingers. “You’re so beautiful, you know.”

Pickles’ eyes looked remarkably green against the blush in his cheeks. “Jeez, Charlie…warn a guy before you say shit like that.” He blinked a little too quickly and cleared his throat, a wobbly smile playing on his lips.

It was, in all honesty, the best morning Charles had ever had. And after breakfast, on the couch in front of the roaring hearth, it only got better.


	12. The Beard (Chickles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> done for a tumblr ship meme - prompt was "We'll figure it out" with Pickles and Charles :D done for [InsomniacCoffee!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniaccoffee) (go read her stuff because ahhhhHHHH <3)

“Whaddaya _mean_ yer not comin’ back?” Pickles clutched the phone in a fervor, not even noticing the spikes as they pressed pinprick indents into his fingers, and he was breathing hard. He’d been practicing stuff for “Blazing Star” on the kit in the bedroom when the phone vibrated in his back pocket. Usually he’d let it go to voicemail, but he’d been anxious to hear from Charles for a good week. “All yer shit’s still here!”

“I’m aware, and I’ll be sending for my things eventually,” Charles replied on the other end. He sounded so distant. Pickles had never felt so cut-off from him before. Well, except for those months he thought the guy was dead. But even then, he hadn’t been _angry at him_ for it, not like with this.

Pickles grit his teeth together, hating what was about to come out of his mouth. “ _I’m_ still here, too, asshole.”

The line went silent and for a dreadful moment he thought he’d been hung up on.

“…Charlie?”

“I’m sorry,” came the defeated voice on the other side. “Things are, ah. Hectic here. I haven’t had a moment to myself since the ceremony, and I, ah. I’m just not thinking very clearly I suppose. Of course I know you’re there. Of _course_. I just can’t get away right now.”

“Well–” Pickles sniffled. Fuck, he was _not_ going to cry. “–when _can_ you get away? Or when can I come visit?”

“Not for the foreseeable future, I’m afraid. There’s some, ah. Ritual? I’ll be overseeing? They haven’t explained it to me in full yet, but, ah. Apparently it’s quite tedious. Takes weeks to complete.”

“Weeks?” Pickles squeaked. “Charlie, when am I gonna _see_ you again?” It seemed unreal. He had grown so accustomed to seeing this man every day. Even when they couldn’t be intimate with each other, they were still in each other’s company or under the same roof at least. A small comfort. But now…

“We’ll figure it out.”

Pickles felt the first tear drip down his cheek and he sniffled again and wiped it away with a sweatband, but more only followed. “You promise?”

“I do promise. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not cryin’, ya fuckin’ prick.” But he was. He really was. He gripped the phone and curled in on himself as a quiet sob squeezed from his throat. “I’m _not_. And I didn’t mean the prick thing. Don’t hang up on me.”

“I know. I’m here.”

That just made it worse, because Charles was definitely _not_ here. Not in the way he wanted. Not in the way that meant he could be held or kissed. A crackling voice and and a pointed ache in his fingers didn’t even begin to compare.

He cried into the receiver as Charles did his best to comfort. Whispered “it’s all right”s and “I love you”s. Eventually his sadness ebbed away into a vague melancholy, and he sniffed and rubbed at his still-leaking eyes.

“Hey, Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“Send me a picture? I just…really wanna see you right now, dude.”

“Oh, ah. I don’t–”

“ _Please?_ I haven’t seen yer face all week. _”_

Charles was silent for a moment or two, and then the phone buzzed with an incoming text. Pickles opened it, blinked in confusion, then started to giggle through his tears.

“It’s, ah–” Charles groaned in exasperation. “It’s a work in progress, all right? I know what it looks like.”

“No, no, it looks good. Really.” The giggles still wouldn’t leave Pickles alone, though. “You look like fuckin’…fuckin’ what’s his face. Movie guy. Married that hot lawyer.”

“If you’re about to say George Clooney to me, Pickles…”

“ _That’s_ the dude.”

“Don’t do this to me. I’m not _that_ gray.”

“ _Yet_.” Pickles settled down a little smudged away his tears, for good this time. “I mean it, though. I like it. Show me when it all grows in?”

“I will,” said Charles fondly.

“In person?”

“Literally the second I’m able to get away.”

“‘kay.” And Pickles kissed the phone, tickled pink when he heard a similar sound on the other end. “Love you, Charlie.”

“I love you, too, Pickles.”

“Oh, oh, and Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“What was it like working with Brad Pitt?”

“I’m hanging up on you now.”


	13. The Night Out (Chickles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a tumblr shipping meme - prompt was "be careful" for Pickles and Charles!

Pickles placed an overflowing shot glass in front of Charles’ place at the table and watched eagerly as the man’s hazel eyes settled on on the sickly red liquid. The band had been pumping him full of beer and crazy shots all night, wondering when he would finally hurl, though he seemed to have an iron stomach. Fitting, since he worked for them. “Here ya go, chief.”

“Oh, ah. I-I dunno.” Gosh, did he have to be so fucking cute when he slurred his words? “What’s…what’s it. What is it?”

“A Red-Headed Slut.” Pickles grinned a crooked grin. “No relation. Now drink up.” He was holding his own shot, and as Charles lifted the small glass he clinked them together. “ _Sláinte_.”

“Um. _L’chaim_ , I ‘spose.”

They tossed back the drinks. Charles’ brow furrowed and he clicked his tongue in his mouth as if deciding on whether or not he liked it. Very cute.

Nathan lumbered up behind Pickles, Toki tucked up under his arm. “Next bar. C’mon, let’s go.”

“No, no, no,” Charles moaned. “No next bar. Time for…home. Going home.”

Nathan laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Oh man, he’s fucked up.”

“Gonna pukes his guts out,” Toki said, giggling.

Pickles helped Charles up from the booth, noting with amusement the way the poor man slumped hard against him, dress shoes slipping on the damp bar floor. “Woahhhh, chief. Use yer legs! There ya go. One foot in front’a the other. Left, right, left, right.” He navigated Charles out the front door after the others, yanking him back from walking into a streetlamp almost immediately. “Fuckin’–! Wouldja stick with me? Goddamn, yer sloppy as shit.”

Charles just groaned and clutched at Pickles’ shirt, stretching out the collar.

They made it to the next bar and Pickles parked him on a stool to go flag down the bartender. When he set down the next shot, Charles just looked up at him blearily as the band crowded in. “Blowjobs for everyone,” Pickles said, lining up the last shot glass on the counter. “You can only use your mouth, though, that’s the trick. Like so.” Holding back his dreads, he leaned over one of the shots and closed his lips over the rim, tasting the whipped cream already. He threw his head back, swallowed, and plucked the glass from his mouth. “Ta-da!”

The band downed their shots with little incident (Murderface was too drunk to complain about it), and finally it was just down to Charles, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Pickles the whole time. Slowly, though, he positioned himself over the shot glass and, as Pickles watched, lowered his mouth over the dollop of whipped cream on top. Boy fuckin’ howdy, was _that_ a visual.

With absolutely no grace whatsoever, Charles craned his neck back and gulped down the shot, but lost his balance on the stool and started to topple backwards. Pickled lunged for him–”Shit! Charlie!”–and caught him fast under his shoulders and one of his thighs, the other leg caught in the bar stool.

Charles pulled the glass out of his mouth, eyes enormous and starry, glasses askew. “Ohh, ah, Pickles…”

“Be _careful_ ,” Pickles told him, adjusting his grip on his leg. Maybe longer than he should’ve. It was a very nice leg.

“I’m…I _am_ …m’careful…”

“Oookays,” Skwisgaar said, laughing, “I t’inks dis guys has enoughs, ja? We needs him alives.”

Nathan grunted. “Good point. No more for him. Looks like he’s not even gonna throw up anyway, what a bummer. Guess we can call it a night.”

Murderface called their chauffeur around and they piled in, slurring and swearing at each other and giggling like idiots. It had been a good night. Before too long, the roar of the road and the rumble of tires lulled them into a stupor, their drinks finally catching up to them, and they more or less dozed off. Toki drooled onto Nathan’s chest, and Skwisgaar reclined with his boots kicked up over Murderface’s legs. Pickles rested his cheek on Charles’ hair, listening to his cute little drunk moans. Poor dude probably wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. They should’ve taken more pictures.

“Mm…Pickles?” Charles shifted out from under his chin to meet eyes with him, looking dopey and flushed, glistening with a sheen of sweat.

Pickles’ heart skipped a beat. “Yeh?”

“I, ah…” Charles leaned closer.

“…yeh?”

“M’gonna be sick.”

“ _Oh_.” Pickles quickly swiveled Charles in Murderface’s direction. “Knock yerself out, chief.”


	14. The Band Meeting (Chickles, mature-ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a tumblr shipping meme again! prompt was "can i kiss you?" with pickles and charles!

Charles had arrived at the apartment on time for the meeting they’d all planned only to find three of the remaining four band members absent. There was only Pickles, who looked very drunk and somewhat apologetic and offered him a beer, which he accepted. Things were much smoother with the band when he agreed to a drink. One drink. He was still working, after all.

“They knew we’d scheduled a meeting, correct?” Charles asked after a long sip. Skwisgaar had bought this case. He never skimped on quality, unlike Pickles who was content to drink swill.

“Oh, yeh.” Pickles pointed to the calendar by the fridge, where “CHARLES” and a frowny face had been written on today’s date in red sharpie. “But Nat’an and Skwisgaar drove over to Tempe to see this band, and Murderface had to go help his grandma with somethin’. So it’s just lil’ ol’ me.”

“So they’ll be gone all evening? And no one thought to call me and let me know? The point of a band meeting is to have the band physically present.”

Pickles shrugged a bit. “Well, I mean, you can have it with _me_ , and I can tell ‘em whatcha said when they get back.”

While Pickles might have been the one Charles would trust most to relay things to the rest of the band, he politely declined. “I’ll just reschedule. It’s important information about the upcoming guitarist auditions. And I, ah. I suppose I should give you back this beer.”

Pickles put a hand on his forearm to stop him. “No, no, drink up. Stay a while, dude. You never just hang out.”

Charles had to admit that he’d blocked out a good three hours of his afternoon for this and now had nowhere else to be today. And the beer really was rather good this time. Reminded him of his college days.

“I suppose I could, ah. Hang out. Sure.”

“Awesome!”

The excitement on Pickles’ face was something he didn’t expect. People typically didn’t get excited to see him. He took another sip off his beer and motioned to the living room wall. “The clean-up went well, seems like.”

“Oh, yeh. You did a good job hirin’ that painting crew. If we lose our security deposit, it won’t be ‘cause of Magnus.”

Charles let a small grin of pride sneak across his face. A good job. “My pleasure.”

“Speaking of which–” Pickles disappeared further into the kitchen and then reappeared with a frosty bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. “–a toast?”

“Oh, I, ah. I think I’m fine with just the beer, thank you.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t wanna celebrate gettin’ rid of that fuckin’ asshole. C’mon, just one.”

It felt just a smidge unprofessional to celebrate the loss of a client, but Magnus _had_ been particularly vicious. Charles hadn’t even told the boys about his slashed tires last week. Didn’t want to make them anxious. For all they knew, this Magnus business was in the past and would never bother them again.

“Just one. _Pickles_ –” He warned over the tops of his glasses. “ _Just one_.”

“Fine, awright.” Pickles poured them each a perfect shot and held his up in the air. “To, um. To real pals.”

Charles clinked his shot into Pickles’. “Sure. To real, ah. Real pals.”

They drank, swallowed, and Charles lunged for his beer to smother the taste. Oh, it was _foul_. Pickles definitely bought it. He stifled a cough into his sleeve while Pickles giggled at him.

“Not a shots kinda guy, huh?”

“Whatever gave you _that_ impression.”

Pickles was smiling and his cheeks were flushed from the alcohol. “Y’know, I meant it, Charlie. You’re a real pal.”

Maybe it was just the cheap vodka mixing with the expensive beer, but Charles felt his heart stutter. He hadn’t, not for a moment, considered that Pickles had been toasting to him. Surely, he’d meant the band. Surely, he’d meant, well…any of his dozens and dozens of actual friends. Charles was his manager. He knew his place.

“That’s, ah. Flattering Pickles. I didn’t know you thought of me like that.”

“’Course I do! You helped me get that new kit, and you got my car outta impound last month. And dude, you came to see me in detox. Y’know who else came?” Pickles made a zero with his fingers. “Fuckin’ nobody. I mean, I get it, it’s a shit place to be. So it was cool that you showed up. Never had a manager give a shit like that.”

Charles’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t expected those things to stick with Pickles like that. They were just polite gestures. His client needed a new kit and he had money to spare. He hadn’t even hesitated to pay for part of it. His client was about to lose his car and he had the power to prevent it, so why wouldn’t he? His client was ill. Didn’t matter that it was heroin. The correct thing to do had been to visit him. It was just business. Wasn’t it?

“You’ve had very poor managers, then, Pickles.”

The smile still shone on Pickles’ freckly face. “Guess I have. Thank goodness for you.”

Charles finished off his beer, grinned, and went to the kitchen to rinse the can in the sink. He wasn’t used to being thanked. Wasn’t used to being appreciated for anything. Nose to the grindstone, as his father used to tell him. You keep your head down and attend to your business and that should be all the satisfaction you need.

He shut off the water and there was Pickles behind him when he turned around. Those bright green eyes twinkled in the florescent light, and Pickles trapped him against the counter with his wiry arms.

“Pickles, what–”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Can– _excuse_ me?”

“C’mooon. Please?”

Charles had seen Pickles’ daddy issues and weird authority figure hang-ups from a mile away, but he thought he’d been successfully navigating them thus far. And now, all at once, he was face-to-face with them.

“No, it’s, ah. It’s inappropriate. I work for you.”

Pickles licked his lips, breath hot. “You think I give a fuck?”

“Perhaps not, but _I_ do. I minored in business ethics for Christ’s sake.”

“Ohh, fancy.” Pickles drew little circles around the buttons of Charles’ dress shirt, keeping him pinned to the counter with his pelvis, and Charles was suddenly very certain he was hard in his slacks. Oh, this was very bad. Big trouble. Not a good idea whatsoever.

“If I, ah. If I say yes.”

“Uh-huuuh?”

“You’ll drop this? And this’ll be the end of it?”

Pickles’ smile showed his teeth now. “Promise.”

With a bob of his Adam’s apple, Charles forced his eyes shut. “Then kiss me. Just once. And I mean it, Pickles. _Once_.”

He hadn’t expected the hands, warm hands, on his jaw. Hadn’t expected to be cupped so delicately. Hadn’t expected Pickles’ lips to fit so perfectly against his own. And he _really_ hadn’t expected to enjoy it as much as he did. He tasted the vodka on Pickles’ tongue but it was good in his mouth. When they parted, Charles swooned forward just a little, and Pickles snickered.

“Awright, as promised. That’s the end of that. Thanks for indulgin’ me, chief. Like I said, real pal.”

Charles watched, dazed and lust-struck, as Pickles went to the fridge for beer. “Can I, ah. Can I have another?”

“Oh, sure.” Pickles brought him one of the cans, but he pushed it away.

“Not that.” And he kissed him again as Pickles dragged him out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom. Business ethics be damned. This wasn’t business. It was pleasure.


	15. The Suit (Chickles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt was: "Dethklok must attended a very important social gathering that will open them up to bigger opportunities and better gigs. The only problem is that it's a suit and tie party which means Charles needs to take the boys to a tailor to get suited up. The typical hijinx happen with Toki arguing with skwisgaar while Nathan and Murderface complaining about the suit being itchy. Charles at his witts end before pickles comes out looking incredibly handsome in a very expensive looking suit, He's is in awe."

Murderface scratched at the crotch of his suit and grimaced. “There’s no fucking breathing room in these pants, Charles. I’m making ball soup over here. Why can’t we just wear what we always wear?”

“Because,” Charles said pointedly for probably the fifth time that afternoon, “the mayor wants you to make an appearance at his fundraiser this evening, and it’s important that you look decent.”

Nathan also seemed uncomfortable, kept pulling at his jacket sleeves and wriggling his massive shoulders. It was a good fit, Charles knew, he just wasn’t accustomed to it. The big man snorted, tucked a lock of black hair behind his ear, and said, “Our old manager never had us dress up.”

“Your old manager never got you a recording contract, either. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Nathan grunted in concession. “Fine.”

With a sniff and a clearing of his throat, Charles turned his attentions to the dressing room stall and knocked. “Pickles, ah, how’s it going in there?”

A little whine sounded from behind the door along with the shuffling of fabric. “It’s goin’, chief.”

Charles checked his watch. He was really hoping to wrap up suit shopping in the next twenty minutes, which would give them an hour exactly to drive out to the mayor’s mansion. Cutting everything so close was giving him a headache, but that’s just how things went with these boys. They fought him and fought him and fought him until the last possible minute, and then everything happened in a whirlwind of frantic energy that left Charles internally panicking until everything somehow managed to work out just fine.

There came a sudden shout from the tie display behind him, and when he turned around he saw Skwisgaar and Toki in the middle of a heated argument. Other customers in the store were starting to stare.

“No!” Skwisgaar hollered, trying to pull one of the ties from Toki’s hands. “You can’ts wears what ams the sames colors as me! Picks a different one!”

“But I likes the blue!” Toki cried, clearly winning the tug-of-war. The boy had been on a real weight-lifting kick lately in an attempt to befriend Nathan, and the results were obvious.

Skwisgaar abruptly let go of the tie, which sent Toki flying backwards into a group of mannequins, knocking them over into a display of cuff links and scattering them across the floor. One of the sales associates hurried over and started to clean up.

Charles felt the tension headache squeeze at the base of his skull. “Apologies for them,” he called to the employee, who just gave him a look. “I’ll pay for any damages.” He was getting awfully sick of saying things like that. He motioned for Toki and Skwisgaar to step closer to him, and they slunk over like two kids who knew they were in trouble. “No more rough-housing, you understand? Toki, we don’t act like this in public. And Skwisgaar, ah, you’re the older one. I expect you to set an example for him.”

They nodded, properly chastised, and went to sit down where they talked quietly with pouty faces.

He knocked again at the dressing room door. “Almost done?”

“Yeah,” Pickles said. “Not a lotta cock room in these slacks, huh?”

Charles felt heat prickle under his collar.

“That’s what _I’m_ saying,” Murderface grumbled.

Charles rubbed at the nape of his neck. He needed a handful of ibuprofen and a massage. “Please just, ah…if you’re done, come on out. We’re on a tight schedule here, Pickles.”

“Awright, hang on, lemme get this jacket on.” Eventually the door unlocked and Pickles stepped out, adjusting the cuffs a little. His suit was dark gray with a subtle undertone of green, and the deep emerald tie at his throat set off his red hair and pale skin in a way that was…really quite fetching. Pickles met his eyes, brows lifting. “What? What’s that face for? Does it look bad or–”

“No,” Charles cut him off, flustered that he’d been caught making a noticeable expression. “No, it doesn’t at all. You, ah. You look…very nice, actually. Very…presentable.”

Pickles’ lit up with a toothy grin. “Well thanks, Charlie.”

Charles’ heart pounded and he tried to look away but found he simply couldn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. Pickles had always held some amount of fascination for him, what with his glam rock days and all. But this was something entirely different. The man was downright _enchanting_ in that suit, like he was born to wear it.

“Hey!” said Murderface, the gruff voice snapping Charles from his trance. “ _I_ didn’t get a compliment. Don’t _I_ look nice?”

“Yeah, what about me?” asked Nathan.

“Ands me!” said Toki and Skwisgaar in unison, then glared at each other. “No, me! No, _me!_ ”

Charles sighed. “All right, yes, you _all_ look nice, boys. Good grief.”

“But _I’m_ the nicest,” Pickles said, still smiling. “Ain’t that right, Charlie?”

“I told you boys before, I don’t play favorites.”

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? Charles tugged at his collar, and as they moved towards the front of the shop to pay, Pickles lingered behind and took his arm at the elbow.

“Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna tell ‘em.”

“Tell them what?” Charles asked, feigning ignorance.

Pickles just laughed, and it sounded like a song. “Oh, I like you.”

Charles tried to swallow down the heat in his cheeks. This job was going to be the death of him.


	16. Reckless (Nickles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> random tumblr prompt - word was "reckless" and ship was Nickles! :)

Pickles leaned forward across the bar counter and smiled with lips shining from the last of the whiskey he’d just downed. “Well?” he asked. “Whaddaya say?”

This was such a bad idea, and Nathan could hear his mother’s voice playing in the back of his head, telling him he was being reckless. But his belly was full of alcohol and nachos, and the dude from fucking Snakes ‘n Barrels was eyeing him like no one had ever eyed him before, all bedroomy and shit. People didn’t really look at each other that way in real life, did they? Then again, Pickles was famous. Or used to be famous.

“I can’t just--” Nathan frowned at himself and sighed. “I can’t just... _leave_ Abyssal Carcass.”

“Why not? Weren’t ya just sayin’ those guys were lazy pieces‘a shit? That they weren’t hungry for it? And I heard y’all play earlier tonight, and no offense but it was crap. They’re draggin’ ya down, dude.”

“I know, but they’re, like. Y’know. Old high school buddies.”

“Okay. I getcha. You wanna be nice to yer lil’ pals. Then I guess I’m wastin’ my time.” With a soft, sad laugh, Pickles took the dishrag from off his shoulder and returned to the sink. “I mean, I dunno about you, but I’d like to get outta this fuckin’ town sometime in the next decade.” He shook his head and the dreadlocks he had pulled back in a bun brushed along his pale shoulders. “Don’t ever move to another state ‘cause ya think yer in love, that’s all I’m gonna say, ‘specially when yer broke as--”

“Okay, hold up. Hold up.”

That coy little look returned to Pickles’ eyes and he dropped a glass in the sink. “Uh-huh?”

“Do you think we’d really have a shot? We could really get, like, famous?”

“Fuck yeah we could! Yer a fuckin’ beast up there, and ya ain’t bad to look at neither, which helps. Kinda got that Type O vibe goin’ on. How old’re ya?”

“Twenty-three.”

Nathan swore he saw Pickles’ pupils dilate, but his mind couldn’t process that. It was still processing _ain’t bad to look at_. Pickles cleared his throat. “Hot damn. Okay. So yeah, you and me, the fresh face and the wizened industry veteran. We won’t even need a manager at first ‘cause I know all the basic shit. Then we just need to put out a call for a couple guitars and a bass. Ya know anyone?”

Everything was happening so fast and Nathan was so drunk, and thankfully Pickles caught on to that.

“Okay, dude, guess I’m jumpin’ ahead of ourselves. But are you sayin’ yer in?”

Nathan stared as Pickles offered a hand across the bar counter. It felt like some planet somewhere was spinning slowly into place, or like a clock hand was ticking ever closer to _something_. Something important. With a grunt, he put his hand in Pickles’ and they shook on it firmly like two businessmen making a deal.

“So I’m thinkin’, like, Deathkiss,” Pickles said, spreading his hands as if imagining it lettered up on a marquee. “It’s hard but it’s kinda sexy, y’know? Like yers truly.”

Nathan made a face. “Hate it.”

“Oh c’mon!”

“Death, though... I dunno. Death-something could work. Hm.”

Pickles rolled his eyes. “Cock.”

Now it was Nathan’s turn to laugh, and he pulled the small black notepad from his back pocket and borrowed a pen from a cup near Pickles’ register. “Deathcock. A cock that fuckin’, like... fucks you to death. Hah. Y’know in French they call an orgasm ‘the little death’. _La petite mort_. I know French isn’t very brutal, but uh--” He looked up, and Pickles’ freckled cheeks were pink. “What?”

“Nothin’, I just didn’t expect to hear French comin’ outta that mouth.”

Nathan blinked and the put the notepad away. “Oh. Uh.”

“So ya growl like a fuckin’ demon on stage and ya speak French.” Pickles stretched over the bar again like a cat. “What else does that mouth’a yers get up to?”

Wait, was Pickles actually coming onto him? Like, for real? He thought that tabloid stuff was just rumors. Not that he was necessarily _opposed_ to the idea, even if fucking around with bandmates didn’t exactly seem smart. It was just... a lot to take in.

With a raspy giggle, Pickles started closing up the bar. “Don’t listen to me, I’m drunk as a skunk. C’mon, ya wanna get outta here? Get some coffee? There’s an all-night place up the road.”

“Oh, uh. Sure.”

Pickles counted down the register, turned off the lights, grabbed his coat. He came around to the other side of the bar, stepping down onto the main floor, and Nathan realized just how _tiny_ he was. And _this_ guy was hitting on _him_? Pickles directed him out the door, locking up behind them.

“It’s just a couple’a blocks, no biggie,” said Pickles, though he shivered even in his coat. It wasn’t _that_ cold out, but then again Nathan had natural insulation. Before he could think about it, he curled an arm over Pickles’ slender shoulders and let it rest there casually, and Pickles went pink again and said nothing else.

They walked to the diner in pleasant silence, the two founding members of Deathcock. Or whatever it would end up being. They’d figure it out together.


	17. Perhaps (Nathan/Abigail)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: "Abigail and Nathan pick up the pieces after Doomstar's events and decide to cautiously try a casual date. Where do they go, what ends up happening, and how do they feel walking away from it?"

“You know, Nathan, when I said ‘a casual date’, I sort of meant something like a coffee shop. Or bowling. Or even karaoke.”

Nathan looked across the small table at Abigail. “How is this not casual?”

Abigail motioned to the restaurant around them, of which they were the only two patrons because Nathan bought the place out for the evening.

“It’s just a restaurant,” he said.

“In the Eiffel Tower, Nathan.”

Nathan speared a piece of fish and dipped it delicately into the butter sauce before shoving it into his mouth, nearly moaning at how good it was. “Okay, but Abigail. Abby. You gotta try this.” He poked at another tender piece and tried to pass her the fork. “ _C’est délicieux._ C’mon. _C’est très fin._ ”

Abigail narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Did you bring me all the way to France just to show off your French?”

Shrugging his massive shoulders, Nathan just said, “ _Peut-être_.”

Abigail sighed and took the offered fork, chewing slowly and then more eagerly. “Oh, that _is_ really good.”

Nathan grinned. They tucked into their respective meals for a moment, eating quietly, and then he swallowed a mouthful of wine and cleared his throat. “And the speaking French thing--that wasn’t, uh, the only reason I did this.” Abigail peered up at him, her mouth full. “I mean, I just thought, y’know. Maybe you wanted to get away for a while. And Paris is supposed to be all, uh...romantic and stuff.”

After a sip from her own glass, Abigail rested a hand over his. “That’s very sweet, Nathan. But I really didn’t need something so elaborate.”

“Yes you did,” Nathan said quickly, his face going hot as he said it. “I mean--”

“I get it,” she said, cutting him off with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “You’re trying to take my mind off what happened to me and Toki by doing something over-the-top.”

How did she always seem to know exactly what he was trying to get at? “Uh... yeah, actually. Is it working?”

Abigail smiled but her eyes were sad, which had sort of become her default look as of late. It made Nathan ache a little to see it. “Not really. But I appreciate the effort.”

Nathan poked at the remnants of his fish, feeling like an idiot. Of course this wouldn’t work. Abigail had lived through hell and he seriously expected some rich fucking asshole date to distract her from the shit she was still going through?

“Hey,” she said, ducking her head a bit to catch his lowered gaze. “That doesn’t mean I’m not having a nice time, Nathan.”

He looked at her. “Really?”

“Really really.”

“And would you...wanna do it again sometime? We can do something boring, it’s okay.”

Abigail laughed softly. “ _Peut-être_.”

Nathan blushed, tried to keep the dopey smile from his face, and called over the waiter for the dessert menu.


	18. Sunrise (Hammertooth)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: ship was Hammertooth, words chosen were sunrise, morning, and guitar :)

Toki wakes slowly, lazily, not yet ready to come out of the sweet dreams that still cling to the corners of his mind. He rolls over to seek out Magnus’ body heat but finds his side of the bed empty, so he tugs the sleep mask up onto his forehead, confused, and peers around the darkened hotel room.

Magnus is nowhere to be seen, but at the far end of the room the glass door to the balcony is slid partially open. Thin white curtains rustle softly in the breeze coming through the door, and the palest morning light makes them almost seem to shimmer.

And is there...music playing?

Moving quietly from the bed, Toki approaches the balcony door and bushes the curtains aside to reveal the scene. Magnus sits shirtless in one of the rattan chairs, hunching over his acoustic guitar, picking delicately at the strings. He tends to make faces when he thinks he’s playing alone--little wry smiles and lifted eyebrows that make the creases in his forehead bunch up. His eyes are closed, and Toki doesn’t want to startle him by announcing his presence. He’s content just to listen and let affection prickle pleasantly in his chest. He knows the song well at this point--Magnus has been working on its composition for months now, but in the open morning air the tone feels different. The bittersweetness of the usual melody gives way to something calm, something restful. It’s beautiful.

As the music continues, the sun begins to rise over the water, and Magnus raises his head and his tired eyes crack open. Above the warm sound of the guitar and the breeze and the birdsong, he says, “’Mornin’, bud.”

Toki smiles, happy to be found out. He comes to stand over Magnus’ shoulders and he presses a kiss into his bed-rumpled curls and drapes arms down his chest. “Good mornings. How’d you knows I was there? Thoughts I was beins a real good spy.”

"You were humming along,” Magnus says, and there’s a touch of laughter in his voice. It’s a gruff music all its own. He starts to put the guitar down, but Toki stops him with a hand on the guitar’s neck.

“No, no,” he says close to Magnus’ ear. “Please keeps playins.”

Magnus takes Toki’s hand in his and kisses the knuckles. He leans back in the chair with his guitar positioned on his knee, and they watch the sunrise together as he finishes the song.


	19. Overworked (Chickles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: "overworked" for Pickles/Charles :3c

Pickles sat at the kitchen table by himself with the morning paper and a strong Irish coffee. He drank and scanned the headlines for anything interesting, but most of the articles were preoccupied with Dethklok’s latest album delay. Just as he put the paper down, he heard that tell-tale tap of smart dress shoes against the tile, and he turned to see Charles enter and make a beeline for the coffee machine.

Mug in hand a few moments later, Charles came to the table and stopped briefly to rub at Pickles’ shoulder before sinking to a nearby chair. He groaned and yawned into his suit sleeve and itched at his eyes under his glasses.

“G’mornin’, sunshine,” Pickles said, trying not to giggle. “Seems like you’re just about ready for a nap.”

Charles hummed in agreement and sipped at his coffee. “And you’re having quite the early morning.”

“Nah, more like a late night.”

“ _Pickles_ ,” Charles scolded.

“Aw, I’m fine. I’ll sleep in a bit. But look at _you_ , Charlie. I’m sayin’ this with all the love in my fuckin’ heart, here--you look like shit.”

Charles frowned and put his head in his hands over his steaming mug. “I know I do, Pickles.” He sighed deeply and his shoulders slumped. “To be perfectly honest with you, I’m exhausted. There’s just been so much to do the past few months, and because of the album delay I’ve had to postpone my vacation, and I was _really_ needing--” Looking up suddenly, he seemed embarrassed and removed his fogged glasses to rub them with a handkerchief he produced from his jacket. “Sorry, I, ah--I don’t mean to complain. I really don’t.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Pickles, and he couldn’t help the twinge of guilt in his gut. Charles was working so hard for them, and here Pickles was, operating on no sleep, drinking at seven in the morning, still vaguely high from the fun he’d had last night. “I hear you loud and clear, though. We gotta get this album out so you can go golfin’ already!”

A grin slid across Charles’ pale, sleep-deprived face. “You need to get the album out so the global economy doesn’t tank,” he said, then shook his head with a quiet laugh and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But, ah, whatever motivates you, I suppose.”

Pickles leaned in to kiss him, cupping his jaw in both hands. Charles made a little sound of surprise, and when they parted his hazel eyes were wide.

“If someone sees--”

“Would you relax?” Pickles said. He couldn’t help the giggle that snuck into his voice. “No one’s gonna see us. No one’s even awake.” And still Charles attempted to protest, so he kissed him again to shush him, and once more with a soft slip of tongue to return a little color to his cheeks.

Charles drew back, suitably flushed now. Scooping up his mug, he rose from the table, nearly tripping over the chair leg as he moved towards the doorway. “I, ah--guess I’m just gonna--”

“Get back to work?” Pickles said, smirking at him.

“Y-Yes, if you need me, I’ll, ah--I’ll be--”

“In your office. I know, hun.”

Charles gave him a sheepish smile before exiting the kitchen. And after finishing his Irish coffee, Pickles stood to go wake the guys and drag them to the studio. His man was getting his vacation, damn it.


End file.
